


While Visions of Sugarplums Danced in their Heads

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Oranges, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 00:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13224876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: Emma tries to bring some festive cheer to Mansion House.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ultrahotpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrahotpink/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Stockings Were Hung By The Chimney With Care](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13167219) by [ultrahotpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrahotpink/pseuds/ultrahotpink). 



> Here, have some Holiday Emmry fluff, you 3.5 fans still out there!

Henry Hopkins sighed. The soldier he had been praying with had, at last, fallen into a fitful sleep. Around him, others tossed and turned, the room silent if not for the squeaks of bedsprings or moans of exhausted pain. Allowing himself a moment’s respite, Henry removed his glasses and leaned back, letting his gaze wander wistfully out of the window, to the dark, wet, muddy street out front. The sight did nothing to soothe him, so he rose from his hard chair, his knees protesting from the prolonged strain, and silently made his way out of the ward, the day’s weariness ordering him straight to bed for a few hours of oft-delayed sleep.

In the lobby, he was surprised to fall upon Emma Green, and even more so to find her tying evergreen garlands to the staircase’s banister. She must have heard him come in as she raised her eyes to meet his, her cheeks coloring up before he had the chance to utter one of the many questions flooding his tired brain.

“Chaplain,” she greeted him, moving away from the stairs and brushing fallen needles from her apron. “I was just… decorating.”

“I can see that, and doing fine work of it,” he replied appreciatively, now taking in the crimson bows and pinecones spread across the greenery. “May I just ask… why so late at night?”

The blush deepened to match the bows and a dismissive smile crossed her lips. “Well, we’ve barely had a moment’s rest at the hospital, and it is already December 22… I feared that if we did not decorate now, we might pass Christmas over.”

This gave Henry pause. “The 22nd? Is it really? In this climate, I never would have thought.”

Emma sighed. “Me neither, with the war and constant income of new patients… I fear none of us have been in much of a festive mood”.

It was Henry’s turn to flush. “Oh, goodness…” he stuttered. “I’m afraid you will think me quite silly, but I… truly meant the weather. It’s so... green in December in Virginia.”

Emma started, then could not help but laugh, both at his comment and apparent mortification from uttering it. “Please don’t trouble yourself so. We’ve had a few white Christmases over the years, and I agree they were much more charming than this dreadful muddiness.” As his discomfort faded, she came closer and pressed on, an interested twinkle in her eyes. “Please, tell me: what is Christmas like, back home, aside from snowy?”

Henry smiled obligingly and leaned against the post. “I expect it’s what all the Yankee boys here would tell you about: home with my family for Christmas morning service, hymns and carols, then, if the weather permits it, skating on the pond and snowball fights with my nephews; a nice dinner, with a roast and cakes, oranges when we could get them. And yes, snow. Always plenty of snow.”

“That sounds absolutely lovely,” Emma reassured him, and he could see she genuinely meant it.

“It was,” he replied, emboldened. “But I’m sure quite quaint next to your standards. How were your Christmases?”

Her gaze floated around the room, recollecting its former splendor. “Wonderful: I wish you could have seen it. Every room in the hotel was decorated. For the last few years, we’d even begun having a Christmas tree, like Queen Victoria: a grand one, out in the ballroom. Between Christmas and New Year, every family in town hosted a party, with dancing, drinks and fine foods. We spent the season going from one house to the next in new dresses and shoes, dancing through the night, sleeping through half the day. It seems like forever ago, now.”

Henry admired the glow that had illuminated her features as she spoke, recalling the precious, hoop-skirted doll he had initially met. “I’m sorry you won’t have many such parties to attend this year,” he empathized.

She shrugged and shook her head. “Thank you, but don’t be. I’m lucky to have known them for a few years. If you must be sorry, be so for Alice, as she had just begun to attend them, or for my mother, who lived to throw these events and outdo her friends. I shall be just fine.”

The Southern Belle vanished once more, and Henry could only stare in awe at the sensible, generous, radiant woman she had become. Thankfully, she did not look at him, but wearily at the ward, and continued. “With all the horrors we deal with now, with all these boys have lost… these lavish parties seem so… frivolous to me now.”

“So do my oranges and snowball fights,” he added, regaining his composure. “Playing at war as children… if only we had known.”

She smiled pensively. “Knowing or not… I think boys will always play at war, and girls at being grand ladies attending royal balls. It’s when we do it as adults do it that no good can come from it.”

Henry raised his eyebrows and tipped his head. “Such grave wisdom, at such a late hour.” They exchange a sideway glance, and the mood lifted along with the corner of their mouths.

They stayed in reflective silence for an instant, lost in thoughts of former festive glory and carefree childhoods, until a yawn caught her, then him, off guard. “I will finish this in the morning,” she said, excusing herself.

“I’ll help you, if you’ll allow me,” he offered, perhaps too eagerly, and caught it up. “Perhaps none of us shall have our traditional Christmas, but we should at least try to give the soldiers some Yuletide cheer.”

Emma smiled warmly and nodded, and they bid each other good night.


	2. Chapter 2

Emma’s banister work elicited such cheerful comments from the patients able to see it that all staff took up the effort when they had a moment free. The hotel’s decoration crates were brought up, and everyone marveled at the velvet ribbons, carved statuettes and delicate ornaments that had been Mrs. Green’s pride. No room could be spared for a tree, but Henry and a few young hands went out to gather fresh pine branches that were then made into wreaths and garlands and hung wherever possible. Corn was popped over the fire and many soldiers gladly passed the time threading the puffy kernels, sneaking a handful here and there. The new activities and change in décor did wonders to the soldiers’ morale, and the mood was noticeably merrier as December 23 turned to Christmas Eve.

“I found this in Mr. Bullen’s things,” announced Matron Brannan as she came into the kitchen, exhibiting a fiddle. The few staff members that had gathered there for a quick morning cup of coffee looked at the instrument enquiringly.

“What was Bullen doing with that?” asked Hale. “The man hardly struck me as the musician type.”

“Well, neither do you, Dr. Hale, but we all know you are gifted with a voice nicer than you deserve,” retorted Bridget. “Can any of you play it? No use in us having a fiddle if we don’t have a fiddler.”

To everyone’s surprise, Sam raised his hand. “I can play a tune or two,” he said timidly.

“Very good, Mr. Diggs!” exclaimed Brannan, passing him the instrument. “I’m sure we’ll find a boy in our wards who can show you a few more.”

“Pity the piano’s gone,” commented Belinda as she took steaming, fragrant biscuits from the oven. “Miss Emma could have accompanied you, Sam.”

As the stares converged on her, Emma shook her head dismissively. “Oh, no, Jimmy and Alice are both much more accomplished pianists than I ever was; I never did well with an audience. And besides, it is one thing for me to loot crates of musty decorations from a storage room, but quite another to make away with my parents’ grand piano.”

The image of little Miss Green stealing the massive instrument in the dead of night made them chuckle.

“Well,” Emma continued, excitement apparent in her voice, “I might not have a piano, but I _did_ obtain something even more useful from my family.” She took out a large bag and opened it to reveal pair after pair of woolen socks.

“Socks!” exclaimed Mary, delighted. “And sturdy, warm ones, too! Where did you fall upon such a treasure?”

“All these sowing circles my mother and Alice insisted I participate in. I convinced them the socks would be just as useful to the soldiers recovering here as to those in the field, not to mention they would be better remembered as a generous Christmas present from their gracious hosts than lost in a mail contingent somewhere,” she explained, trying and failing not to appear overly pleased with her coup.

“An absolute _tour de force_ , I’m sure, that will be most appreciated by our boys,” Mary responded, admirative, and Emma beamed at her mentor’s compliment. “And just the perfect wrapping for the little something we also managed to find for them,” she added, a twinkle in her eye.

At Emma’s quizzical expression, Mary shared a conspiratorial glance with Bridget. “Well, let’s just say a violin wasn’t the only thing that rat Bullen was hiding,” the matron replied.

“We’ve relieved him of a few… festive foods,” Mary continued, almost vindictively. “Come, let me show you.”


	3. Chapter 3

At last, Christmas Eve night was upon them, and all enjoyed every minute of it.

All men who could be moved were gathered in the main ward, where the beds had been pushed against the wall to free space in the middle of the room. Under the glow of fire and tapers, Henry led them in prayer, before food was shared. For once, every man ate to his stomach’s content, and raised a glass of ale to the health of his comrades and care providers. The music started before long: along with Sam, another fiddler was found, along with a fifer and a banjo-player, who had both managed to hold on to their instruments through their ordeals. For the rest, all joined their voices, hands and hearts to the carols and other festive songs sung, led with gusto by Dr. Hale and Sister Isabella’s surprisingly crystalline soprano. Those who could walk took the nurses and nuns to dance, and Emma was by far the most solicited, laughing breathlessly as she was whirled into yet another reel to the cheers and hoots of her bedridden charges.

The festivities went on until the late hours, and when all soldiers returned to their beds and appeared to have fallen asleep, the staff returned to the wards, with the last presents in hand: silently, they hung a pair of new socks to the foot of every bed and placed packets of candy, chocolate, nuts and dried fruit into them, smiling eagerly as they imagined the soldiers’ reactions the next morning, and even more so when they thought of Bullen’s when he would see his depleted hoard.

When Emma and Henry finally slipped outside of their ward, they were beyond exhausted, but drunk on the happiness that had infused the evening. “Well done, Miss Green,” he congratulated her in barely a whisper, dropping down to sit on the landing stairs. “You have given many a man a Christmas to remember.”

“And believe me, so have they!” she sighed as she collapsed beside him. “I don’t think I have ever danced so much at any other Christmas!”

“So you did get your traditional frivolous frolicking, after all,” he teased her good-naturedly.

She narrowed her eyes at him but her smile remained, even taking a mischievous turn. “Speaking of tradition, I managed a little something else.”

She burrowed into her pocket and, to his surprise, produced, with much flourish, an orange. “Where did you ever get that!?” he exclaimed.

Delighted by his reaction, she grinned wider and explained: “Nurse Mary secured some from Bullen’s personal pantry to share amongst the men tomorrow morning, and after I provided the socks, she was more than happy to let me have one for this man who had mentioned just how fond he was of Christmas oranges.” He chuckled softly, both amused at her craftiness and embarrassed to have been the cause of it.

“Now,” she continued, “I know you will probably be your usual gallant, noble self and give it away to the first boy who mentions fresh fruit, but I would really like for you to allow yourself a bit of the… how did we put it? Ah, yes, _frivolity_ of this evening, and keep it for yourself.” He was about to protest but she pressed the fruit into his hand, keeping her own over it, and plunging her blue gaze into his. “As a very small token of my appreciation for all the help you’ve given me in making tonight a success.”

He stared back at her, and would have kept on staring for a very long time if a faint movement in the corner of her vision had not made her avert her eyes, and gasp. “Emma, what is it?” he cried, alarmed, but her smile had widened to one of sheer amazement.

“Henry, look out the window.” He turned his head to follow the direction hers indicated, and then he saw it.

Snow. Tiny little snowflakes, slowly falling, and dusting the roofs in the lightest of shines. He watched them dance, sparkling under the lamplights, and the beauty of it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

“Looks like you just received the last item on your Christmas list,” he heard her say softly, and he turned back, to another vision just as sweet.

He had been so enthralled by the snow he had not noticed that his other hand had grabbed hers, and was holding on tightly under the emotion of the moment. As he realized it, he softened his grasp, but she squeezed back, and timidly entwined her fingers through his.

The overwhelming joy and gratitude he felt was too much to express, so he just held on to her, watching her look at him with such radiant promise, and quietly replied:

 “Yes, I truly could not ask for anything more this Christmas.”

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at the same time as ultrahotpink's "The Stockings Were Hung by the Chimney with Care". Thank you for giving me some Holiday inspiration to get back to the Mercy Street fanfic universe.
> 
> The oranges links this story to hers, and anyway needed to make an appearance: they truly were the Chrismassiest stocking gift for generations (little Amy March cradling, then sullenly replacing her much desired orange on the cake is one of my favorite scenes from 1994’s Little Women), and Christmas ain’t over ‘til I’ve gotten sick of clementines. 
> 
> I couldn’t resist sneaking in a reference to that random deleted scene where Bullen’s playing the violin. As to where that waste of a character is, I’d say suffering greatly in a damp corner somewhere. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and a very happy 2018 to you all!


End file.
